


Absolution

by MorteMistrata



Series: Lions everywhere [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Before and after the hug, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Keith has a panic attack, M/M, Pidge | Katie Holt Needs a Hug, hunk needs a therapist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata
Summary: After the Paladins return to Earth, Hunk and Keith grow closer as they both deal with the ramifications of their homecoming. Hunk prefers to think of this as their being two separate chapters of his life: before the hug, and after. Keith prefers not to think too hard about this at all.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission by @space-peachx, and will be posted in three chapters: 1. Before the hug, 2. After the hug, and 3. Life beyond the hug. The 2nd and 3rd chapters will have smut. Lots of smut, but also emotions and plot and stuff. Just a warning before you start reading. Thanks, and as always, please R&R.

Hunk folds the unsightly orange, achingly familiar uniform and sets it down on his bedside table. He pulls the worn, Cadet issue shoes off, and sets them down by the side of his bed. Then he turns to his bed, and pulls the sheets back. A bed. A real bed with a mattress, and a pillow, and sheets made of real cotton. He smiles and tries his best to savor the feeling as he lays down beneath them, two threadbare pillows stacked beneath his head. The ceiling above him is cracked in places, has a water stain in one of the corners stretches an arm ominously towards him, but ultimately, is just a normal plaster ceiling. If Hunk were to close his eyes, and try to sleep, he could pretend that it was just another night at the Garrison, with another day of simulation training coming for him in the morning, like it could’ve been had they never left, and maybe then, he would finally have a night of peaceful sleep. 

 

He closes his eyes. 

 

“Shit.” Keith mutters as he slams the door behind him. He leaves the lights off as he stomps towards the bed opposite Hunk’s. There’s a loud thump as he falls onto it, knocking the headboard against the wall, and then the sound of labored breathing, like the air circulation has been cut off, and there’s nothing left for Keith to inhale but his own exhalations. 

 

The Garrison might be cramped and confining, but the air supply, for once, is not a problem. Something is wrong. Hunk opens his eyes and tries to keep his voice casual as he turns to Keith, who is leaning back against the wall beside his bed, “Are you okay?”

 

Hunk leans forward and studies Keith. He looks away from Hunk’s gaze resolutely, but is unable to hide the paleness of his skin, or the thin sheen of sweat that covers it despite the shadows working in his favor.  He clutches his stomach, and tells Hunk, “I’m fine. Just go to sleep.” The words come out strangled and airless, in a broken whisper that Hunk has to strain to hear. 

 

“What? No, no, that’s stupid. You’re obviously not okay.” Keith only shakes his head, and crosses his arms even tighter.  Hunk gets up, and sits down beside him. He wants to put his hand on Keith’s shoulder, or knee or something, wants to hug him, and ask what’s wrong, but he’s not sure if it’ll help or hurt. Keith has never really been one to initiate physical contact. He settles for putting an arm around his shoulder, and then asks again,“Keith, what’s wrong? How can I help?” 

 

“My chest hurts.” Keith finally admits between strained breaths. “My chest hurts, and I can’t breathe, and  _ I don’t know what’s wrong. _ ” 

 

Hunk wonders if Keith might be sick with something, and considers carrying him to the medic station (because god knows that Keith won’t go there of his own free will), but then he realizes that that can’t be right. Keith isn’t sick. He can’t be, not when he’s  _ never  _ gotten sick before, not even once despite the many, many alien viruses he must have come into contact with; but his symptoms are familiar. 

 

Trouble breathing, chest pains, a sense of panic-

 

It hits him like a brick. 

 

“Keith,” Hunk says, his voice even and gentle, “You’re having a panic attack. I used to have them a lot, especially during my first year here. I’m going to help you get through it, okay?”

 

Keith nods, still not looking up. 

 

“Okay, um, let’s try something simple first, okay? Name five things you can see around you right now.”

 

Keith looks up finally, his purple gaze unconvinced. His breathing seems a little easier now, but only slightly. Whatever set him off must’ve been really bad if it could affect Keith like this; he always seems so untouchable...except for those few times when it’s too much, even for the fearless leader, but those are always quick, fast passing. Never anything like this.

 

“I’m the coward of the team, alright? So I think I know more about being scared than you do. Try it with me.” Hunk looks around and then spots his neatly folded uniform. “There. My uniform. That’s one thing I can see. Your turn.”

 

“You. The bed.”

 

“Two more,” Hunk encourages. He hadn’t been sure at first if this would work, but by the look of things, Keith is at least giving it a try. “Tell me two more things.”

 

Keith takes a deep shuddering breath. “The rug. The door.”

 

“Four things you can feel.”

 

Keith glances at the arm draped around his shoulder. “Your arm, this stupid uniform, the bed.”

 

“The wall too.” Hunk adds, and then noticing that Keith is still staring at his am, pulls away. “Sorry.”

 

“No, it’s fine.” Keith says, and this time, he actually sounds like he means it. His breathing is back to normal, and his face has started to regain its color. “It helped.  _ You  _ helped. Thanks.” 

 

No problem, Hunk means to say. Don’t worry about it. But then he notices that Keith is smiling, like actually smiling, with teeth and everything, and he forgets his lines. When was the last time that Keith smiled like that? 

 

“Hunk? Buddy?” Keith asks, leaning forward. He waves his hand in front of Hunk’s face, startling him out of his thoughts. 

 

Hunk runs his hands through his hair, and adjusts his bandana around his forehead. “You should probably get a drink of water or something. You still look kind of pale. Y’know what? I’m feeling kind of hungry. I’ll grab something for you on the way.”

 

Before Keith can get a word in, Hunk is out the door and on his way to the dormitory kitchens. 

  
  
  


Hunk has always known that he was meant for mediocre things, and the realization that he will probably never achieve even that is really disheartening. He doesn’t mean this is in a self-diminishing way. He’s smart. Like really smart, and he’s good with his hands. He understands the mechanics of Altean engineering, and became a paladin, and that shit is hard. He has the makings to be a hero: The problem is that he doesn’t want to be. Hunk wants to help put the damn ships in the air, not fly them. He wants to become famous in obscure engineering titles, and to create the next generation of spacecraft. He wants to come home, and sleep in a bed that is his, and his alone, and he wants to visit his family every Sunday for dinner. You can’t have those things if you’re a hero, and Hunk is fine with that. That’s the trade off. He gets to keep his life, but he ends up mediocre. Shitty mediocrity is fine.

 

Except now, it’s not.

 

Mediocre Hunk can’t find his family. Mediocre Hunk can’t save the Earth. Only a hero, the kind which Hunk has always strived to  _ not  _ be, can fix all of that. Does he even have the courage to try to be that kind of man?

 

Hunk pushes aside these thoughts aside as he makes his way to the Dormitory kitchens, and is happy to find it abandoned, but clean. He pulls down a cake tin, then puts it back up. Cake will take too long to cook, and too little time to create. He needs to make something else, something that won’t be a waste of their limited food supply, but will take a good, long time to prepare. He needs the time to think. About the situation they’ve stumbled to on Earth. About his family, and his future. About… Keith. 

 

He shouldn’t be thinking about Keith.

 

Hunk pulls down a baking tray, and a mixing bowl, and starts to search through the various cabinets and drawers for the rest of his supplies. 

 

Keith had a panic attack. Keith, who’s been taking all of this… space stuff in stride while the rest of them just barely manage to keep it contained. While Pidge and Lance pretend that they’re fine, totally unfazed about the purple alien space war, clone warfare, and the various other improbable events they suffer through, Keith actually  _ is  _ okay. He loses his temper, and jokes and does stupid stuff just like the rest of them, but Hunk has never seen the weight of their lives crush him, like it has done so many times for the others. So what was tonight?

 

Stop thinking about him. You have other things to think about. Your family, the state of the Earth, the probability that you will never be able to retire. Focus on something else, on your biscuits.

 

Biscuits. Biscuits are good, because then he can take the time to make different batches with different flavors. He can make gravy for them, or cover them in cheese, or… It doesn’t matter all that much. It’ll give him something to do to so that he can think. 

 

“I thought you were bringing me water,” Keith says as he leans against the kitchen door frame. “Not cooking the whole Garrison breakfast.”

 

He wears his uniform still, and despite the ugly color, wrong size, and recent panic attack, he still manages to look good. Whatever moment of weakness he’d previously had has been brushed aside, and Keith has managed to make it seem like it doesn’t faze him at all. It makes Hunk feel awkward now, cooking in his grease-stained undershirt, and too short orange pants at one a.m. Guess the thinking and pondering of his various problems will have to wait until later. 

 

Hunk looks down at the supplies arranged around him. “Nah, this would hardly feed anyone, let alone the Garrison. Maybe you and Pidge, but Pidge is a hard cut-off.”

 

“Pidge? Why Pidge?”

 

Hunk mixes the dough together, and with a small grin, says, “Pidge is a gremlin when it comes to breakfast food.” 

 

Keith waits a moment for Hunk to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, uncrosses his arms, and walks over to the flour-covered counter. “Look, about earlier…” He trails off, seemingly lost for words. 

 

“I won’t say anything. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” Hunk mimes pulling a zipper across his mouth.

 

“It’s not that, it’s just-” Keith straightens up, and meets Hunk’s gaze. His eyes are impossibly purple (probably a Galra thing), and as hard as stone. “I can’t talk to anyone else about this, because they’re too close, or too separate from it to understand. You have the context. You were there. So I’m going to tell you something, and you can react to it however; I trust you to react reasonably, but please don’t tell the rest of the team. We’re splintered enough as it is.” 

 

Hunk sets his spoon down, and nods once, resolutely. Of course Keith can trust him. Hunk might be a gossip, but he’s never been one to spread information that he’d been asked to withhold. 

 

Keith studies his face for a moment (but was that moment shorter than Keith’s usual moments? Did he search his face less than he would’ve searched someone else’s?) and then nods back. “I think attacking Lotor was a mistake.”

 

Hunk waits a beat for the punchline, and then when he realizes there is none, scrambles to think of a response. “Uh, could you elaborate?”

 

And like the final wave that knocks down the floodgates, Keith does.

 

“The universe was fucked up before we ever touched it, but I think we actually managed to break it. Lotor was bad. He did some horrible things, but Lotor being gone is even worse. We disappeared for three years, and without someone there to fill the power vacuum Zarkon left, everything got worse. Now we’ve got multiple factions of the Galra empire. Now the Blades are being hunted down, the Rebellion is dying, and Earth, the one place I thought safe from Galra influence, is being invaded. If Lotor was still in charge-”

 

“If Lotor was still in charge, there wouldn’t be any guarantee that things would be better. His power balanced on the fact that he promised unlimited Quintessence to his followers. What if he didn’t follow through? What if he did?” Hunk turns back to his biscuit dough, and starts to knead it. The soft, squishy dough rises up between the gaps in his fingers, and pushes through the thin holes at the edges of his palms. It’s an easy, repetitive thing, and the action itself gives him an excuse to pause and think for a bit on what he’s going to have to say next.

 

“We were only in there for a few minutes, and we started to get corrupted.” Keith says. He sighs and shakes his head. “At the best of times, Lotor had still been morally grey. If  _ we _ couldn’t handle it, there’s no way that Lotor could’ve.”

 

“Exactly.” 

 

Keith stares at Hunk’s hands, and watches as he separates the dough into small sections, and sets them on the baking dish. “Aren’t you tired?”

 

“I was earlier. Now I’ve got all of these thoughts going around in my head and I need to sort them out.”

 

“And how long is that going to take?”

 

Hunk shrugs. “An hour, maybe? The biscuits should be done by then.”

 

If Keith thinks that Hunk has implied that it’s his fault that he’s unable to sleep, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he pulls himself up on one of the free counters, leans against the cabinet and crosses his arms like he’s settling in. “Then I’ll wait with you.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“The least I can do is give you some company while you bake,” Keith’s voice goes quiet, and that smile of his, that sincere, rare thing, reappears. “After all you’ve done for me tonight.”

 

Hunk considers saying something else, but the silence is comfortable, and he isn’t quite sure that he’ll be able to reply without making a mess of things, and so he stays quiet, and finishes his biscuits, and tries his best not to notice Keith, who watches him from his perch on the counter all the while.

  
  
  


The next morning, Keith is gone before Hunk even wakes up, bed made up so neatly that Hunk isn’t sure that he’d even slept in it. He isn’t really sure what to make of the previous night, of their sudden closeness, and he’d wanted to study his and Keith’s reactions that morning to figure it out. Oh, well. It’s not all that important, he tells himself as he dresses. Keith is his friend. Last night, he was a friend to Keith. It’s not a big deal, and it’s certainly not something to freak out about.  _ Oh, but it is _ , a voice in the back of his mind tells him.  _ Did you see how he looked at you? How you looked at  _ him? 

 

Someone knocks on his door just as he’s pulling his shoes on, and he loses his balance. 

 

“Coming!” He calls as he tugs them on all the way, and clambers to his feet. He reaches for the door, but whoever it is opens it, and slides inside before he can even grab the doorknob.

 

“Iverson wants us to explain the basics of Galra and Altean computer systems to some tech team of theirs, and if we don’t go now, we’re not going to be able to catch breakfast before we go.” Pidge explains as she loops her arm through his and drags him out into the hall as easily as a child guiding a kite. 

 

“I made biscuits last night.” He supplies. “We can grab a few from the dormitory kitchens.”

 

“You made biscuits last night, Lance spent the night talking nonstop to his family, I hacked into the Garrison systems again because they wouldn’t give me full access,” Pidge laughs, and it sounds off, like the sound was recorded, warped and replayed. “And I know for a fact that Allura couldn’t sleep, because she spent the whole night pacing and talking to the mice. I wonder how Keith dealt with the whole Galra invasion thing. Does Keith even  _ do _ coping? He always seems to move on so fast.”

 

“Biscuits,” Hunk says again, guiding her into the kitchen. “I made you cheese biscuits. No sausage, because I don’t think the Garrison even  _ has  _ meat anymore, but I made you cheese biscuits.”

 

“And gravy?” She asks as he leads her towards a chair. 

 

“And gravy,” Hunk agrees, as he sets a plate for her and puts it in the microwave to warm. 

 

He sets the plate down in front of her, and makes a plate of his own. 

 

“Hunk,” Pidge asks around a mouthful of bread. “You think we’re going to get out of this one? Like, do you think we can save everyone?” She stares down at her plate, and wipes her biscuit through the gravy until it’s surface is covered in it, then takes another bite. “I just got my family back, and I really,  _ really  _ don’t want to lose them again.”

 

At least you got your family back, Hunk thinks. At least if we do die, you die with them. 

 

“We’ve done alright so far.” It doesn’t really answer her question, but it’s enough to perk her up, and get her through the day. 

 

Pidge straightens up, and in her cadet uniform, she looks young. The rest of them seem too old for the confines of that orange tunic, and yet, it only reminds Hunk of how young Pidge still is. Hunk was sixteen when they got blasted into space. He’d been a teenager; he’d gotten to try parties, and dating and other teenage things. But Pidge had only been fourteen when they left, and had been even younger than that when she gave up her identity to find her family. Her whole adolescence has been spent fighting a war that isn’t hers, and now that they’re home, she’s fighting another one. She’s only eighteen, and already she’s a veteran of two wars.

 

“We’ve gotta go,” Pidge mumbles through a full mouth. She wraps another biscuit in a napkin, sticks it in the pocket of her shirt, and starts dragging Hunk once more towards the meeting.

  
  
  


The meeting starts with a few general questions about operating systems, like which Earth systems are most compatible, how Pidge and Hunk managed to interface with it using their own devices and so forth, but a good portion of their audience is not tech-minded, and continually interjects, and tries to steer the conversation away and towards the military side of things, and eventually, Hunk and Pidge gives in.

 

“Have you ever witnessed a Galra invasion first-hand?” A grey haired general asks. “Is subjugation of the native lifeforms normal? Or is Earth a special case?” The words hand unspoken at the end of his sentence:  _ is this because of Voltron? _

 

Hunk forces himself to keep eye contact as images of the Balmera, and Shay fill his mind. “The Galra empire has been in power for 10,000 years. Most of the planets that we helped to free had been invaded centuries ago, so we’ve never really dealt with a full on invasion at this stage.” He should say something about the slavery thing. He should, but now he’s thinking of his family being held in a labor camp, like Pidge’s father, like Shay, and the words stick in his throat, choking him into silence.

 

Pidge glances over at him, as if expecting him to say something else, but when he doesn’t, leans forward and says, “The Galra generally use natives to mine their own planets for resources for the Empire. So no, they’re not singling us out. It’s not revenge for Voltron. It’s just how they expand their rule.”

 

The grey haired man nods, and leans back, pensive. 

 

“Do you have any knowledge on how they treat their workforce?” Iverson asks as an ariel snapshot appears on-screen. The picture shows a crowd of human walking into a subterranean area, while sentries, both Galra, and robot, guard them. “All spies have been unable to report, and we can’t spare anymore if we plan to fight back anytime soon. There was an idea floating around of potentially starting an uprising from the inside, but that would all hinge on whether or not they would be fit enough to participate.”

 

A slave revolt? Really? That’s the best they can do? Are they dumb, or do they just not care how many people would die doing something as futile as that?

 

“They’re slaves, Sir,” Hunk says, his voice hard, and yet eerily calm. He suddenly just feels so tired, tired of the questions; of the ignorance; of the arrogance. He knows that it’s not their fault but he’s on edge, has been on edge since they got here and this meeting, this dumb question is all that he needs to finally fall. “They get treated like slaves do. I’m sure you can imagine the conditions they’re subject to,” Hunk’s voice is growing louder by the syllable, and although he knows that it’s dumb, that it’s a bad idea, he can’t make himself shut up.  _ Maybe that’s cause you don’t want to,  _ a voice inside him suggests,  _ maybe you like getting to act out _ .  __ “But just in case you can’t, because, oh, I dunno, you flunked U.S. history or something, let me enlighten you. Slaves work for sixteen hours a day without training, safety precautions, or adequate food or water. Whenever someone is brave, or stupid, or depressed enough to to try to deviate, to try and revolt, they are killed. They don’t get warned, or whipped or punished. They get killed, because there are plenty of others left to replace them.”

 

The room goes quiet, though whether it is because of his words, or the thoughts that they bring forth is uncertain. 

 

Pidge pinches off a piece of her biscuit and slips it into her mouth. “Next question?”

 

“I think that’s enough for today.” Sam finally says. “Why don’t you two take a break until our next meeting?”

 

Before the offer is even entirely out of his mouth, Hunk is out of his seat and halfway out the door.

  
  
  


“Hunk. Hunk, stop,” Keith grabs Hunk’s arm, and holds it until Hunk finally stops pacing, and looks his way. Hunk opens his mouth to defend himself about the outburst-  _ he deserved it, it just slipped out, this is really hard,  _ but when he meets Keith’s gaze, he finds that his eyes are wide and earnest, not upset, like he’d thought they’d be. “Are you okay? What happened?”

 

Hunk isn’t sure what to say. Keith is looking up at him all concerned, and caring, and it’s makes him feel off-balance. It’s like they’re dancing, and Hunk doesn’t know what the next step is supposed to be, or what the tempo is, or when it ends. Keith isn’t a soft person. He’s all sharp planes and edges, except lately, even before last night, he hasn’t been. It’s like he’s filed his sharp bits down for him, let his guard down when he’s around Hunk. 

 

Hunk doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head. 

 

“I’m your friend, Hunk, please.”

 

“Yeah, but are we? Friends, I mean. Because sometimes it feels like…I don’t know,” Hunk replies, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling, but it makes me feel guilty. I’m not supposed to feel like this.”

 

Keith crosses his arms, and says critically, “Well, how  _ do _ you feel?” And if Hunk didn’t know him so well, he might have said that Keith was unconcerned of his earlier words, and unconcerned of his reply, but he does know him, and he knows that Keith cares. 

 

Hunk stares at his hands. His nails have dug crescent shaped gashes into his palms, and he hadn’t even noticed until now. What is he supposed to say? He can’t say that he’s he’s fine, or that he will be fine, because that’s a lie. He won’t be okay unless he resolves whatever this is he feels about Keith, or he finds his parents, and both of those seem equally unlikely. He sighs, and his shoulders droop forward as if his reluctance to speak is all that held them aloft. 

 

“I feel angry, and sad, and- like I shouldn’t be thinking about  _ this _ when everything else is such a mess.” A few of the cuts bleed, oozing blood that smears across his skin when he closes them again. “I feel guilty, and jealous, and bad for feeling like that.”

 

“That’s okay.” Keith says, pulling a napkin from his pocket. He grabs Hunk’s hand and dabs at the blood until it stops flowing so freely. “Sometimes, I feel guilty too, and then I remember that after all we’ve done, the universe can’t blame us for feeling things, or for wanting to be happy. I think it owes it to us, actually.” He chuckles nervously.

 

This seems like a good place to ask, ‘Hey, so does that mean the emotional turmoil I’ve had over my attraction to you is mutual?’, Hunk really, really, doesn’t want to be the one to say it. So he nods, and says his thanks, and lets Keith go to his next meeting without having admitted anything at all. 

  
  
  


That night, Keith appears in the kitchen once more, and tells him in a tone more uncertain than he’s ever heard him use before, “Look, I’m not really good at talking with people and I… I don’t expect you to open up to me, but … If there’s ever anything on your mind…” 

 

And there is.

 

And at the end of the night, Hunk doesn’t feel quite so awful anymore.

  
  
  


“What are we doing?” Hunk whispers to the dark. They bed is welcoming, the covers warm, his body exhausted, but still he cannot sleep. “What is this supposed to be?”

 

The room they share is small, and they’re beds are close together, close enough for Keith to reach out, and grab Hunk’s hand. 

 

“It’s whatever we want this to be, and it’s okay that we have it.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. A sudden resolution

Hunk’s missing family leaves him aching like an open wound, and lashing out like a live wire, and despite the voice in the back of his head telling Keith that his behavior is dangerous, that he needs to talk him down, he doesn’t. He can’t. When things get hard, Keith has always found that there are two choices: To confront it, or to run from it. He has done both, he knows that it’s a gamble either way. Hunk has chosen to confront it, and Keith respects that. 

 

_ Is ‘respect’ why you said you’d go with him?  _ A voice in the back of his head asks wryly.  _ Is ‘respect’ why you followed him out of that meeting, told him all of those nice, rousing things? Is that why all day today, you’ve followed him around like a lost puppy, getting distracted by the determination in his eyes, and the strength of his arms, and the way his words come tumbling out like water in a brook? _

 

Shut up, Keith tells it, as he pulls on his Paladin armor. 

 

He’d never thought he’d get used to the thing, let alone miss it, but after a few weeks wearing his old Cadet uniform, old and worn and entirely too thin, it feels like a second skin. He pulls on his boots last, lets the armor come online and magnetize to itself until it is sealed, and then stands. 

 

When did this become his new normal?

 

“Keith,” Hunk peeks his head inside of the armory, eyes downcast in a show of giving him privacy. “Um, I just wanted to thank you before we left. For, you know, coming with me. You really didn’t have to, but I’m glad that I won’t be alone,” Hunk swallows. His adam’s apple bobs visibly, like one of those carnival rides that Keith has always hated. “So, yeah. Um, thanks.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Hunk ducks back out, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. 

 

Keith stares at the closed door and sits down again. Before last night, before whatever  _ this  _ is supposed to be became more than just an enticing concept, would Hunk have acted like that? Would he have kept his gaze on the floor instead meeting Keith’s eyes? Would he have bothered to thank him so thoroughly, or have been so honest? It kills him that he doesn’t know. 

 

Throughout their journey to Earth, Keith couldn’t help but to feel alienated from the rest of the group in a way that even Romelle was not. For the longest, he couldn’t pinpoint it, but when they had been stranded, it had become hauntingly clear: He’d left them; Lance had reminded him of that, and made it clear that the team had noticed his absence, and how easy it had been for him to walk away. What had he missed, when he was gone? How did Hunk- did all of them- grow when he was off with the Blades, and then his mother, chasing after his own path, which always seemed just out of reach? That’s something that he will never know; a mistake that he will never correct.

 

His comm link buzzes in his ear, and Hunk’s voice comes through, quiet and full of static. “The motor pool seems clear. All of the vehicles are there.”

 

“I’m on my way.” Keith confirms. He stands and adjusts his armor a final time, and then steps out into the hall to join Hunk on his rescue mission. 

  
  
  


The motorpool is not as empty as Hunk had first said. The lights of one of the humvees flickers on, casting the two of them in bright, blinding light. Hunk freezes, not like a deer caught in the spotlights, not like a child with his hand in the cookie jar, but like a snake, ready and poised to strike. 

 

“You two heading somewhere?” James asks, his tone flat, because the answer is obvious. It’s not like they’ve got any kind of excuse for strolling around the motorpool in their armor. 

 

Keith stares at him, unrelenting, and steps forward. “That doesn’t concern either of you.”

 

“No,” Veronica says, and it’s obvious in her tone, her stance, the subtle way that he carries herself that she and Lance are related. They both have the same kind of voice that always hangs in the balance, on the precipice of being unkind, but never so. “But you’ll probably be concerned with the patrol drones that will spot you within seconds.”

 

James jumps down from the wheel, landing lightly on his feet. Keith feels a slight moment of annoyance that he didn’t wince, or fall or lose his balance. “And you might be concerned with the blast from Sendak’s low-orbit, long-range blaster satellite that takes you out.” 

 

Hunk steps forward, annoyed with the hitch in their plans. “What’s your problem?”

 

James crosses his arms and leans back against the tire. His voice sounds weary, annoyed. Keith nows from the first syllable that he isn’t trying for a fight anymore. “My problem is I don’t wanna see our only hope for saving Earth get hurt.” He offers a smile; a peace offering to Hunk, who’s standing behind Keith with the aura of a bear about to attack. “That’s why we’re coming with you.”

 

“That so.” Keith sizes him up. “I thought you didn’t like us.”  _ Because while we were gone, you’ve been the hero, and yet, get little recognition for it.  _ It’s a fair enough reason not to like them.

 

James slides into the passenger seat, and shrugs. “Don’t have to. This isn’t a bullshit excursion. It’s a rescue mission. I respect that.”

  
  
  


The ride to the building on the edge of town is a quiet one. Veronica has to focus on their route and on avoiding the drone patrols, and James is not inclined to start a conversation. Keith had thought Hunk might chatter nervously, as he’d been inclined to do on many of their missions, but he too stays quiet. He looks out the window and watches as the burnt husks of buildings pass them by, windows gaping open and black like empty eye sockets. His expression is no longer pained by the sight, like it was on their walk to the Garrison, or the few missions they’ve been allowed on since landing. Instead, Hunk looks… hopeful. 

 

His eyes glint with it, the brown of his iris’ so dark as to be mistaken for black. His hair flattens against his skin, plastered there with sweat. Keith watches as a drop of sweat rolls down the side of his face by his ear; warm, brown skin pulsating with his pulse, beating steadily just beneath the surface.

 

Keith is aware that he is staring, but does not care to stop just yet. 

 

His gaze follows the natural path of Hunk’s body, shifting from neck (bared, warm, rough with the hint of stubble), to shoulders (wide, strong, corded with muscle beneath sun-kissed skin), to waist (thick, encompassing) to thigh. Keith stops himself from looking any farther. He shouldn’t be feeling curious now, or all times. Right now, he needs to focus on the mission ahead. Right now, he needs to focus on helping Hunk find his family.

 

Keith isn’t convinced that Hunk really needs his help to do it either. He’s so much stronger than Keith, even with all of the extra training he’s done, even with the extra years under his belt. Once, he’d seen him snap the neck of a droid with his bare hands. The metal had dented under his grip like dough.  _ How easy it would be for him to hurt you, just on accident. How much does he have to hold back when he touches you, always so careful as if afraid he might cross a line… or hurt you? _

 

Shut up. That’s not important.  _ Isn’t it?  _ That’s not important to the mission, he amends.

 

“We’re here.” Veronica says as she pulls the car inside the glass strewn lobby of an abandoned Marriott. She shuts the car off, and turns around to face the two of them. “This building is close enough to the work camp to watch the prisoners walk to the work camp. Last time we were here, we were able to extract two of our people without being seen. If we follow the same plan, we should be able to do so again.”

 

“Did it with a bigger team last time.” James mutters as he climbs out and jumps to the floor. He closes the door carefully, so it hardly makes a sound. “Had a distraction across town to lessen their security.”

 

“We’ll manage.” Veronica says as she leads them into the stairwell. “We always do.”

 

On the third to last floor, a discrete observation room is set up. There’s a cot in the corner, a rifle laying against the wall by the window, and an abundance of abandoned furniture to stack against the door in case a need for a barricade arises. James does a quick sweep of the adjoining room, and then stacks a chair up against the door, and sits down in it. 

 

He folds his hands behind his head, and shoots Hunk a wide grin, and settles in for a nap. “Hope you find your folks, man, but don’t blow up on us like you did at that meeting earlier. I’m not really keen on dying on an unauthorized personal mission. Wouldn’t look good on my obituary.”

 

“As if anyone would write you one.” Veronica snorts as she unpacks a crate in the corner, setting down a small, old fashioned lantern and a pair of dusty binoculars beside a sniper rifle and a map of the area. She beckons Hunk over to the window, and noting his hesitation, tells him, “They won’t notice us. The sentries only ever search for ground disturbances. Now, see that building, about a hundred yards off from the base?” Hunk nods. “That’s where they keep the prisoners. When the shift change happens, keep an eye on the space between that building and the base. You should have a good view of everyone here.”

 

Veronica hands him the binoculars, and then settles in the one remaining chair, feet propped up on the rickety table. “I have a mission in the morning, so I’ll leave you two to it. Wake me when their shift ends.” 

 

Hunk nods, turns the binoculars over in his hands a few times, and then sets it down on the edge of the table. “Thank you, Veronica.”

 

Without opening her eyes, she waves him off. “Oh, cut it out with the formalities. You’re my little brother’s best friend. That makes you family, Hunk.”

 

Family, he mouths, as if tasting the words, and then smiles slightly. His expression looks so soft then, all of the years of war and hell melt away, and Keith can see who he might have been instead: an engineer, all smiles and jokes, lovingly building the machines Keith would have piloted and broken, and returned. Would they have met if not for Voltron? Would they have become friends? Keith isn’t sure, but the idea that they might not have burns like an unexpected taste of Nunvil. Hunk notices Keith staring, and then that smile of his is directed at Keith, who is still running hot from the car ride. His ears burn, safely hidden in the recess of his helmet, and his neck grows hot with the attention.

 

Keith offers a small smile in return and walks over to the window, telling himself to watch the sunset, not Hunk. Distractions have no place on missions, especially not on unauthorized, highly dangerous missions. The sunset is pretty, and a welcome sight after being stuck in the Garrison for weeks on end. He has seen thousands of sunsets by now, on hundreds of different worlds, and yet, none seem to stand up to this. 

 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Hunk says, leaning on the window ledge. The fading rays of sunlight make his skin glow like it’s imbued with it. When Keith doesn’t answer, Hunk laughs, an honest, quiet sound that he is sure he hasn’t heard before. “Yeah, I know. It’s the kind of thing I’d thought I’d finally mean when we got back home, but,” Hunk shrugs. “A sunset is a sunset. It’s the skyline that really makes it special, and this,” He gestures to the rubble, broken skeleton’s of skyscrapers, the Galra work camp in front of them. “This is not the skyline I’d wanted to see.”

 

“I still like it. It reminds me that we’ve still got another day to look forward to, and that each day has to end.”

 

Hunk laughs, and his bulk moves with the sound.  _ His shoulders,  _ the voice tells him,  _ and his arms. See the strength in them? Remember that. Imagine it applied to you.  _ And a blurred image flashes in his mind (held down, held together, getting wrecked like all of his years of training and battle have meant nothing). 

 

“I guess a leader like you would think of it like that. I’m simpler than that, I suppose.” Hunk says, and carefully, cautiously, reaches out and places his hand on top of Keith’s. 

 

Smart, Keith thinks, in case they need to pull apart quickly. He’s smart not to forget that they are not alone. 

 

“Heh. Thanks.”

 

A loud siren blares, dulled slightly by the distance, and the gates to the workcamp slide open with a resounding clang. Hunk jumps, startled, and grabs the binoculars as the human prisoners start to fill the empty courtyard. James grunts as he wakes up, on his feet in an instant. Veronica keeps on snoozing. Hunk leans further out the window, binoculars pressed to his face as he searches the slow-moving crowds for his family. 

 

Keith looks beyond that at the gates that lead to the barracks, but they are still closed. He has a bad feeling that tonight may not end as happily as they’d hoped, but he doesn’t say anything. If he’s wrong… well, he hopes he’s wrong.

 

“I see them!” Hunk says, pointing at some spot near the edge of the wall farthest from them. He passes the binoculars to Keith. “They’re right there. They’re okay.” The relief in his voice is thick, like he hadn’t expected to find them. 

 

Keith watches as a Galra soldier reprimands the pair. Hunk’s father stands strong bu weary, his wife in his arms, as if he might be able to shield her from whatever punishment is being inflicted. The relation between Hunk and his parents is very visible; his mother looks like the kind of woman who is most at home in a kitchen, who is not afraid to speak her mind, no matter the audience. He wonders how the weeks, or months or years in captivity have changed her. It’s obvious that Hunk inherited his size and stature from his father, who looks to be of the same height, if not taller. 

 

“The gate isn’t open.” James notes as he joins them at the window. “It should have been opened by now. Veronica.” He calls, and suddenly, she is on her feet, and beside him, tapping her cheek as she scrutinizes the scene below. “What do you think?”

 

“I think there might not be a rescue today.” 

 

Hunk’s quiet, relieved grin fades away. “What do you mean? We’re right here. My parents are- they’re right there!”

 

“I mean,” Veronica places a gentle hand on his shoulder, meets his eyes instead of looking away like Keith might have done. “It appears that our previous plan to rescue your parents during shift change isn’t going to work. The Galra aren’t releasing them, and to actually attempt to infiltrate and escape a Galra work camp of this calibre and security level is nigh impossible. I don’t mean that we’re going to give up, or leave them there for any longer than we have to. I’ll- I’ll see what I can do from my end, to increase resources on dismantling this camp, alright?”

 

Hunk is quiet. His hands are curled into thick, heavy fists; anger and aggression and helplessness turned inward. “Dammit!” He yells, slamming his fist into the table. It stands tall for a moment, and then one of the legs breaks, and it falls onto it’s side. Hunk opens his hand and stares at his palm, at the crescent shaped cuts from his nails digging into his skin. “Dammit.” He says again, more softly. He turns towards the window, hunching over it like he’s been punched in the stomach, like he could reach out and snatch his parents up and into safety.

 

James, for once, says nothing, merely frowns and heads back to the stairwell, Veronica behind him. “We need to leave soon. Be downstairs in ten minutes.”

 

It’s only as the door closes that Keith realizes that she’s giving the two of the time to talk, or hug it out or whatever, and that he has no idea what to say. Anything that he could say wouldn’t be enough. 

 

“Hunk,” Keith steps beside him, and tentatively presses one hand against his back, an invitation for more, if he needs it. “I’m here for you, if you need it.”

 

Hunk doesn’t say anything. He turns a little, and leans his head against Keith’s, and he swears that in that moment, he feels closer to Hunk than he has ever felt to anyone else. He can feel his heart beating. He can feel the tears falling down his face, mixing with the faint remains of dried sweat from their journey up the stairs. Keith knows that now is not a good time. Now is the time for quiet and comforting words, and gentle, friendly gestures, but he’s not good at that stuff. He doesn’t initiate touch, he doesn’t comfort other people, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

 

Keith decides not to think about it anymore, and when Hunk pulls back, still close enough for the warmth of his breath to wash over his face, he lets instinct take over. Keith presses his lips against Hunk’s, one hand moving to clutch at shoulder, the other remaining on his back. He can taste the tears on his lips, can feel them against his own, slightly chapped, but not responding. And then Hunk does. 

 

He pushes back against Keith like one magnet repelling another, his hands reaching up to grasp Keith’s shoulder’s, like he’s trying to keep him still. His mouth opens slightly, and he can taste the faint remains of mint toothpaste lingering on Hunk’s tongue. Keith is used to being in control, to being in charge, but right now he wants nothing more than to give it all up; and so he does. 

 

He lets Hunk hold him, keeping him still and in place despite the sudden urge to press up against him, and then-

 

Hunk pulls away, cheeks red. 

 

“Oh shit.” He says, and then shakes his head. His voice is deep, and husky, and does things to Keith that he doesn’t want to think about at the moment.  “Veronica and James are waiting. I- we- we have to go. We have to go now and-”

 

“Later?” Keith had meant for it to be a statement, not a question, but he’s unsure of himself, more so than he’s been in a long time. “We can- later?”

 

“Later.” Hunk agrees as he heads for the stairs, bandana skewed, hair mussed. 

 

Keith lingers for a moment longer, surveying the now empty room, and then follows after him, a faint smile lingering on his lips, accompanied by the remaing feeling of Hunk’s lips on his own. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they haven't done the dirty yet, but soon....soon.


	3. Of firsts, welcomed and appreciated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel super bad about posting so late; I've been really busy with just, like, life in general, and the worst part is that it was almost completely done and just needed some hard editing. Anyways, enough with the excuses. I just hope that you all like it! And remember to always read and review (even an quick 'nice' brightens my day.)

 

 

By the time the Garrison comes into view, the moon is high in the sky, illuminating the desert horizon with her benevolent light. Funny, Keith thinks, how different light can be. Sunshine can be all too revealing, warm to the point of discomfort, but he has never heard of anyone complaining of moonlight. 

 

He watches as it follows behind their car like a lost dog, finally ducking out of view as they enter the tunnels leading to the motor pool. The light lingers for a moment, casting shadows across Hunk’s pensive face, and then disappears. Veronica turns the headlights on right before the darkness impedes her driving, and speeds up as she swerves and twists her way through the tunnels. Keith’s heart beats fast, but he knows that he cannot blame it on her reckless driving. The kiss- that’s the problem. He shouldn’t have done it; he’s glad he did. He wants to do it again. 

 

He looks up at Hunk, who’s staring out the windshield window. Keith can see the white of his eyes, and the lines of his jaw. How does he feel about this? He’s just been told that his family is out of reach; impossible to get to unless they somehow manage to save the entire Earth. He’s probably upset. Angry even. Pursuing whatever this is- whatever that damned kiss was- is probably not the best idea. Probably. 

 

Hunk shifts, the light from his armor casting shadows into the planes of his face, and reaches for Keith’s hand.  His fingers intertwine with Keith’s, and even though they’re both unable to feel heat through the fabric of their undersuits, he swears that his hand feels a little bit warmer at his touch. 

 

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, his voice low.

 

Hunk doesn’t look away from the windshield. In the distance is the hint of light. The Garrison is near.

 

“No.” Hunk’s voice blends with the growl of the engine. “But that’s okay. We don’t have to be okay all the time.”

 

“Is there anything I can do?”

 

“You- you’re doing fine. Just- just stay. Just stay and I’ll be fine.”

 

Keith doesn’t know how true that is, but as they pull into the motor pool. The lights are still on, and the security system not primed. It confirms his earlier suspicions that the upper brass had a hand in their mission; why else wouldn’t they have been stopped when they’d retrieved their armor, or snuck into the motor pool after dark? 

 

Veronica maneuvers the humvee back into it’s parking spot, and before it can come to a complete spot, Hunk is unbuckling his seatbelt (“Safety is important,” He’d said, when Keith had protested. “And wouldn’t you feel dumb if you died in a car accident after all of this?”). 

 

“Where’d’you have to be all of a sudden? S’not like there’s much to do besides sleep around here.” James mumbles as he climbs out, his last words melting into a yawn. 

 

He’s right, Keith thinks. The Garrison shuts off power to most sections of the base after nine thirty in an effort to conserve power and to prevent anyone from doing dumb things (like trying to sneak out, for example). While it’s true that most people have a phone, or light or something to entertain themselves with, most people just try to get in as much shut-eye as possible.

 

Hunk pauses halfway out the door. “I’m aware that Iverson most likely already knows about this, but it would be rude not to at least try to pretend he doesn’t.”

 

Veronica raises a brow. James gapes. 

 

“Keith,” Hunk jumps down to the tire, then the ground below. He doesn’t offer a hand in assistance, but waits for him to jump down before continuing on. “Let’s go.” 

 

Behind them, Keith can hear James yawn once more. “Well, I guess I better follow in their suit, ‘Ronnie. Better bring those keys back, and our guns.”

 

“You can do that  _ after  _ you clean off those tires. Just because the higher up’s know doesn’t mean everyone else should.” Veronica lowers her voice. “And you should know better than to third wheel.”

 

James groans exaggeratedly, but stops in his tracks, leaving the two of them alone as they enter the darkened hallway leading back to the living quarters. The lights are dim, with only one in four bulbs lit above them, creating pockets of shadow between them. 

 

“So,” Keith starts. “Do you want to stop by the kitchen after we drop all of this off? I hid a couple biscuits in the back of the fridge.”

 

“I bet Pidge found them by now.” Hunk says fondly. He glances down at Keith, and a fond smile remains. “You’re not very good at hiding things.” 

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“You hid you magic knife under your pillow for the first two years we were in space.”

 

Keith feels suddenly defensive. “That’s only one example, and I wasn’t trying to hide it  _ that  _ hard.” 

 

“Today.”

 

“‘Today’ what?”

 

“You were staring so hard you could’ve worn a hole through my armor. Why do you think Veronica made James stay back? You suck at hiding things.” Hunk stops in front of the armory door. The lock is rendered useless by a thin strip of duct tape. Hunk slides it open with a simple flick of the wrist, and leaves Keith standing in the hallway, stunned. 

 

Was he really that obvious? He’d thought that he had it under control. After years in space surrounded by the same seven people, they still could hardly tell the difference between him being put out or bored. Keith pauses mid-thought, and realizes something suddenly very apparent. Hunk knows him a lot better than he’s let on, and that would mean that he’s been concerned about him for a while, at the very least.

 

Is this attraction, which had seemed sudden and new at the time of his realization, actually a culmination of longstanding feelings?

 

“Keith,” Hunk calls, his voice muffled by the door. “Are you gonna take off that armor, or are you planning on sleeping in it?”

 

Keith sighs, feeling very stupid, and steps inside. The armory is cast in dim light that creates deep shadows across the gun-laden walls. Their armor is about the only bright thing inside, creating a stark contrast to the steel grey gunmetal. His eyes run over Hunk, who’s currently stripped down to the undersuit, and chest armor, and sitting on a bench. 

 

“Need help?” Keith asks, his voice suddenly deeper than it had been before. Something akin to warmth pools in the bottom of his stomach as Hunk steps closer. He’d never noticed how revealing the undersuit was, not until now. It clings to his body like water, revealing the toned nature of his arms, and chest. 

 

“Not really,” Hunk says offhandedly. Keith’s face falls, despite trying not to. “But you can anyway.”

 

Keith steps forward and unlatches the armor. He waits for the suction to release, and then gently lifts it away. Hunk doesn’t move. 

 

Keith shifts his weight. He’s not sure exactly what to do now; the instincts that had earlier pushed him towards the kiss seem to have gone silent. 

 

He rubs his forearm, and says, “Um, could you get-”

 

Hunk grabs his wrist, and tugs him forward. Unprepared for the action, Keith falls forward easily, landing in his lap. 

 

“You know, you’ve made it really hard to concentrate today,” Hunk’s breath tickles his face as he speaks. “Very hard.”

 

Keith’s face flushes at the innuendo, despite being two years older than Hunk, despite having heard Lance and Pidge say worse things. “Um, I didn’t mean to.”

 

“Really?” Hunk leans closer, his lips an agonizing centimeter away from his earlobe. “So should we stop here, call it a night?”

 

Keith considers. 

 

He doesn’t consider for very long. 

 

He turns his head and presses forward, and kisses Hunk for the second time that night. Hunk’s hand holds him still, a steady weight on his shoulder that causes all movement to cease. Keith’s tongue grazes Hunk’s lip, and through the thin, black fabric, he can feel the slight bulge of an erection. He presses forward even harder, teeth nipping gently as he reaches for Hunk’s hair, tangling his fingers in it’s surprising length. 

 

Hunk rests one hand on the small of his back, the other gripping his waist. The fact that he can grab his waist like that makes Keith’s skin burn, like someone’s set a fire just beneath the surface. Keith shifts, mouth moving down the hard lines of his jaw to the softness of his neck. He opens his mouth, tastes the skin there, and-

 

Hunk pulls back, panting, one hand pressed against Keith’s chest to stop him from reconnecting. Keith pauses, chest heaving as his body tries to make up for the lack of oxygen, and waits for Hunk to say something.

 

“You do realize that if Veronica and James see hickeys tomorrow, they’ll know what we’ve been up to, right?”

 

Keith blinks. He hadn’t really considered that, but then again, he doesn’t particularly care either. What does it matter if they’re ‘romantically involved’? With the threat of imminent death hanging over all of Earth, most people are enjoying the company of others, even those that they normally would not consider (he swears that Pidge has something going on with Leifsdottir).

 

“And…?”

 

Hunk laughs somewhat awkwardly. “Well, I guess if it doesn’t bother you…”

 

“Why should I care what others think of me? I like spending time with you, and the social niceties of the old world make little sense to hold onto now.”

 

“Hmph.” Hunk says tugging Keith closer once more. “I guess that’s true. I’m mean, I’m pretty sure that’s not a gun you’ve got in your pocket there.”

 

It takes Keith a moment to get the joke. He scowls as he leans forward and kisses Hunk again. “You hang out with Lance too much.”

 

Hunk laughs, and then their both too busy to banter any longer. Keith swears that if kissing Hunk were a drug, he’d be high right now, because he’s on him like white on rice. He likes the way his jaw feels against his lips, and the heat of his pulse beneath his skin as he moves to his neck. Hunk puts his hand back on his waist as the other pulls down the zipper of the undersuit, and slips his hand inside. Keith yelps surprisedly, before Hunk nudges his face up again, and steals another kiss. They don’t break apart as Hunk moves his hand around his already erect shaft, pumping slow and steady like he’s got all the time in the world left to get Keith off.

 

A moan rises from Keith’s throat, low and halting as his breath catches in his throat. He forgets what he’s doing for a moment as his head falls back, and Hunk kisses his bare throat. Keith never goes this slow, he never does anything slow, and the contrast between how it feels when he does it, and when someone else does is excruciatingly obvious. 

 

Keith’s fingers hook into Hunk’s shirt as he writhes in his lap. 

 

“Careful,” Hunk murmurs, halting mid stroke. “There’s no need to rush.”

 

“But I-”

 

Hunk moves his hand again, ever so slightly, ang gives Keith a look that dares him to protest. 

 

Keith wants to protest.

 

Keith also wants Hunk to keep doing what he’s doing. 

 

He settles for arranging his face into something that resembles a pout, and then gives a begrudging nod. Hunk studies his face for a moment, and then kisses him gently. Somehow, the tenderness makes Keith burn more than anything else they’ve done.

 

“Thanks.”

 

He moves his hand again, and Keith forces himself not to thrust up into it as he strokes. Hunk kisses him slowly as he jerks Keith off, his tongue burning like an ember as it slips into his mouth. Keith feels the heat of satiation rise within him, and then it’s only a matter of a few gentle touches and- he’s done. Hunk pulls his hand out of Keith’s pants, both of which are now sticky with spunk.

 

Keith’s cheeks grow slightly warm at the sight- which he is aware is ridiculous, seeing as to what they’ve just done- as he grabs a clean rag from the bin under the bench. He climbs off of Hunk’s lap (when exactly that happened, he isn’t so sure), and watches as he cleans off his hand. 

 

“Being half-galra and all,” Hunk tosses the dirty rag into the wastebasket. “I kinda expected more.”

 

Keith blinks. “More what? More-”

 

“No, no, I mean like, that it would be purple, or radioactive or something.”

 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint with my Normal Dick, and everything, but,” His expression softens. “But, uh, thanks anyway. Do you want me to, y’know…” He gestures at Hunk’s erection, left neglected and untouched throughout the whole ordeal.

 

Hunk stands and shakes his head. He picks up the remaining pieces of armor on the floor and sets them back in their assigned locker. “I’m fine.”

 

“But you-” 

 

“Let’s not do everything tonight, alright? I need something to look forward to.”  _ to make the night pass easier.  _

  
Keith considers commenting on all that he’s left unsaid-  _ You’re not alright. You’re not okay, and I don’t know if we can fix that on our own.  _ But he doesn’t. Instead, he carefully strips out of his own armor, places it inside, and follows Hunk out the door and into the hallway (he decides to wash his undersuit himself, rather than inflicting it on one of the poor civilians assigned to laundry duty tomorrow) He slips his hand into Hunk’s, and they walk, back to their dinky little dorm in content silence. 


	4. Perpetual hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I rarely have access to a computer, and when I do, I keep forgetting about this. I finally did another chapter, and will hopefully have the conclusion out as a christmas present to you all. Enjoy!

The morning light cannot reach the depths of the Garrison, where their quarters are carefully hidden, but Hunk can feel the sun rise anyway, casting it’s rays upon the scoured and rotten Earth as it begins another long, fruitless day.

 

He sits up, and quietly slips out of the room. Keith is still asleep; a refreshing change in routine to see him finally give in to his often ignored need for rest. Hunk wonders if they had gone all the way, would he have cuddled with him after? He can imagine asking the question, ‘Are you a big spoon or little spoon?’, and getting the confused reply, ‘I’m a… knife?’ Hunk laughs, and then starts at the sound of his own voice. The hall is quiet, much too still for a base that contains ten percent of the state’s population. His voice should’ve been background noise, nothing more, and yet, the only sound he can hear is his own breathing.

 

“Hey, Hunk,” Pidge says, sticking her head out of the kitchen. Her hair is ruffled, and there are dark shadows under her eyes, but Hunk hardly notices as he junps back and utters a not very manly scream. “Jeez,” She winces. “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

 

Hunk places his hand on his chest, and takes a deep breath. “Why? Why are you so quiet when you’re always so loud?”

 

“Bold of you to assume I can’t do both.” She says as she steps back, beckoning him inside. “Where were you yesterday?”

 

Hunk notes the jar of pickles, and the plate of burnt toast lying discarded on the counter. There is a container of congealed white stuff that may or may not have been rice at one point that sits next to it all, as if she were planning to combine the three into one unholy sandwich. He is so focused on the horrid sight in front of him that it takes him a moment to register the question. 

 

“Huh?” He asks as he tosses the food into the garbage in one sweep of his arm. “I was here. I was in meeting with you for like, most of the day.”

 

“No,” She drawls, hopping onto the counter. “I mean after that. You and Keith weren’t on base for like, two hours.”

 

“Oh. Right.” Hunk pauses, and taps his fingers on the table as he attempts to think of a plausible excuse. “I, uh, we-”

 

Pidge leans in close and pulls the collar of his shirt away from his neck. She snorts as she leans back, amusement in her tired eyes. “Had fun last night, huh?” She leans back against the cabinets and closes her eyes. “I’m happy for you.”

 

“Are you-” Hunk hesitates. He hates that he’s always hesitating but the question he wants to ask seems both important and too stupid to ask. He pushes forward anyways. “You’re not going to say anything, are you?”

 

“Ha! Of course not. Lance wouldn’t believe me anyway.” She pauses. Grins. “But breakfast would go a long way to making sure the Princess doesn’t accidentally find out.”

 

“I was going to make you breakfast anyway.” Hunk replies as he pulls a pan out of the cabinet. They should have enough supplies to make pancakes at the very least.

 

He mixes flour and canned milk in a bowl, the motions of cooking so familiar that he hardly has to pay attention to the smoothing of lumps, the sizzle of the pan, or the browning of the batter. Hunk remembers his first attempt at making breakfast for his mother. He was maybe five or six, still too small to pour the orange juice, let alone cook pancakes. But his mother had been sick, and whenever he was sick, she’d make him breakfast in bed, and he’d wanted to do the same for her. 

 

He’d burned most of the pancakes, and spilled half the carton on the floor, but he’d done it, and Hunk will never forget the expression of love on his mother’s face when he presented it to her. 

 

Hunk wonders if he’ll ever see her smile like that again.

 

“Hunk? You’re burning that one.” Pidge says, nudging his arm with her foot. 

 

Hunk hurries to flip the pancake onto the plate. The others are more brown than he would like, but everything is still mostly edible. Better than what she would have made for herself anyway. 

 

“Sorry.” He mutters as he pushes the plate towards her. “There’s probably butter in the fridge if you-”

 

“Would you please stop?”

 

“What? What did I do?”

 

“Stop pretending! You’re not okay. You’re distracted, and angry, and your hands have been shaking since you came in here.” Pidge’s voice softens as she jumps down. She wraps her arms around him softly, like she’s not sure if he’ll accept her hug. “You don’t have to be alright, but you can stop pretending that you are. We’re here for you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

 

Hunk wants to protest. He is okay. He is fine. Wasn’t last night proof enough that he could focus, that he could function? But all of his excuses sound flimsy, and to voice them would only prove her right.

 

Hunk hugs her back. “Okay.” He says. “I’m not okay. And I’ll talk to someone about it.”

 

“Good.” She replies. “Because life would be a lot easier if you guys would just communicate like adults.”

 

“Maybe,” Hunk admits. “But even if I did, I doubt anyone else would.”

 

Hunk leaves Pidge to her pancakes, and heads back to the hall. He’d had another destination in mind when he’d first left, but even then, it had been a vague idea more than anything else. He decides to head back to his and Keith’s room. Pidge is right. He should talk to someone about this; he should let himself be vulnerable. He owes it to himself and to Keith, if he really intends to pursue a relationship, or whatever it is they’re deciding to call it. 

 

It’s not until he reaches the door that the first tendrils of anxiety begin to penetrate him. His heart begins to beat quickly, and his hands dampen with a thin layer of sweat. Should he knock? Or would that seem too formal? He doesn’t want to burst in if Keith is changing or something, but that’s stupid, isn’t it? He’s seen Keith naked before, even before last night. The Black Paladin was never one for being self-conscious. 

 

He knows that his feelings of anxiety aren’t founded in anything; after all, he’s done much worse, and survived things much harder than talking to his- friend?- about how he feels. Why should he let his fear of social conventions weigh him down?

 

Hunk takes a deep breath, and opens the door. Keith is leaning against the headboard of his bed, a tablet propped up against his knees. His eyebrows furrow as he scrolls through whatever it is he is reading. 

 

“Is it really that interesting?” Hunk asks as he closes the door behind him. To Keith’s credi, he hides his surprise at the sudden noise well, but not well enough for someone used to his tics to not notice. 

 

“Not really,” Keith says, turning the screen towards Hunk so that he can read the title on the screen.  _ The first intergalactic war to reach earth: an ongoing recording of events.  _ A pompous title, Hunk thinks, but not entirely undeserved. “But I’d rather be knowledgeable than entertained.”

 

“Considering how people are talking about us now, that’s probably a good idea.” Hunk sits on the edge of his bed and leans against the wall so that he faces Keith. “Mind sending a copy of that to me?”

 

“Sure.” Keith types something on the screen distractedly, and then pauses, catching Hunk’s eye as he looks over the screen. “Talking about us, how?”

 

“Well, some of it is petty gossip, but someone’s caught wind of your heritage, and they’re saying a lot of separatist things. Same with Allura.”

 

Keith sets his tablet down. The paper on the screen remains, a blurred grey box over a white background, too far away for Hunk to make out individual words. 

 

“So they’ve found a new way to be racist.” Keith’s voice is flat, like the news doesn’t particularly surprise him. 

 

“The old ones are still here. It’s quieter stuff, though. Just comments about Lance, and Shiro and me. Sometimes Allura too, if they’re not trying to come after her alieness.” Hunk shrugs. “Doesn’t surprise me either. It’ll most likely get worse if we win this. Comes with being ‘Earth’s saviors’ and all.”

 

Keith glares at something far off, and then takes a few deep breaths. The anger in his shoulders leave, and he leans back once more. “Yeah. I guess. And how do you feel about it?” The words come out awkward and stilted, like he’s not used to making conversation that isn’t about strategy-based or about training. 

 

Hunk stifles a snort. “It’s fine. I have thicker skin than that.”

 

“And what about… everything else? Are you okay?” Keith fingers the edge of the tablet, running his thumb over the seam. His fingers are fine, and thin; they look like they’re made for creating rather than for fighting. Maybe if things had been in different circumstances, he could have been an engineer, or a mechanic. Hunk thinks that he has the hands for it, and despite his temper, the patience for it too. “What about last night? How are you handling that?”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You’re not?”

 

“My plan was to ignore it, because I don’t have the time to deal with it properly. I can’t let myself feel angry, or sad, or- or- anything at all. I can be functionally upset. I’ve been anxious and scared, and angry for years.” Back then, it had been the bullying. He’d been called names, and had been picked on for his size; for his personality; for refusing to leave behind the hobbies that he loved just so that he could fit in. He’d learned how to set his emotions beside him; how to experience them at a distance. Now, things are different. Hunk takes a deep breath, and is surprised to find that it comes out shakily. “But here, right now? We’re being watched by everyone, all the time. People are judging us; they’re putting their hopes and dreams on our shoulders, and are hoping that we can save them- and how are they going to do that when I can’t handle temporarily losing my parents?”

 

“That’s-” Keith laughs, and the sound is hideously nervous. At Hunk’s startled expression, he shakes his head, and joins Hunk on his bed. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this, like, at all. But I can listen. I understand what you mean, even if I’m not so good at saying it.”

 

Hunk wraps his arm around his shoulder and gently pulls him closer. Keith stiffens like a startled cat, and then leans into his touch. “You’re a good boyfriend, Keith. Thank you.”

 

Keith blinks. “Uh, you’re welcome?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
